


Silent Treatment

by HeartoftheWizard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s04e14 Sex and Violence, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartoftheWizard/pseuds/HeartoftheWizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six times Dean Winchester was ignored by those he loved and dealt with it, and one time Sam refused to let it happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April 6, 1992

**Author's Note:**

> The 'silent treatment' is a form of social control. It consists of ignoring a particular individual, neither speaking to them nor responding to their words.

  
_Granbury, Texas_  
April 6, 1992

He's been staring at the same page in his math book for two hours now. Completely still, completely silent. This eerie quietness from my usually loud brother can only mean one thing. Dad's ignoring him again.

It's always been just another part of life, and it's been going on since before I can remember. If Dean didn't complete his training quick enough, if he became too close to classmates, even if he wasn't watching me like a hawk, Dad would give him the silent treatment for weeks as punishment. It's grown worse over time, especially once Dean began to hunt with Dad. That brought entirely new reasons for our dad to ignore Dean's existence, and it killed my brother.

"Dean?" My voice broke the tension in the air, startling Dean. "You wanna go play basketball?"

A small smile appeared on my brother's face, but didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Not today, Sammy. Sorry."

I sighed and stood up from the kitchen table, putting aside my own homework. I turned on the small television in the corner of the room, and sat staring at the screen, not really watching it. When my brother hurt, I hurt.

Two hours later I jerked my head over to the front door when I heard the key in the lock and my father's heavy boots on the linoleum.

"Hi, Dad," I smiled.

"Hey, Sam." He laid his coat over the back of the couch. "How was school?"

"Fine," I glanced nervously over at Dean, who was watching us both avidly, a spark of hope in his hazel eyes. "Dean's been working on his math for a while now, maybe you could help him?" _Please, Dad, just look at Dean, look at what you're doing to him._

"You want some dinner, kiddo?" And the moment was broken.

I watched as my brother's eyes darkened and he went back to staring at his math book. Anger filled me when I saw the hurt flash across my brother's face.

We sat down at the kitchen table beside Dean, and Dad filled mine and his own plate with macaroni and cheese before dumping the rest into the trash. I could see Dean biting his lip as he continued to look at that same page in his book from earlier.

"What about Dean? I'm sure he's hungry?"

"Did you finish all your homework, Sam?"

"Yes, sir," I mumbled as Dean got up from his chair and slowly walked out of the room. The rigid air immediately vanished but my anger was back in full. "I think I'll go to my room now," I bit out, leaving the untouched plate behind.

I followed my brother to the room we shared and hovered in the doorway.

"You know Dad loves you, he's just-"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean snapped, turning his back to me.

I sat watching his unmoving form for the longest time until eventually I changed out of my clothes and laid down, too.

There was nothing I could do that I hadn't tried dozens of times before. It would be over soon, anyway. Dad would give Dean some order when he decided quiet time was over. And then for the next few days Dean would eat up anything Dad had to say to him, negative or not. He'd follow him around like a puppy follows his master. I felt sick to my stomach just thinking about it.


	2. September 2, 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The experience of rejection through 'silent treatment' can lead to a number of adverse psychological consequences such as loneliness, low self-esteem, aggression, and depression. It can also lead to feelings of insecurity and a heightened sensitivity to future rejection.

 

  
_Lorance Creek, Arkansas  
_ September 2, 1997

From the moment I stepped into the kitchen an uncomfortable silence settled around me.

_Was it something I said last night? Did I do something wrong at school again? Was there something Sammy didn't clean up and he's blaming me for it?_

I ransack my brain, searching for the cause of the anger radiating off my dad.

_What did I do this time?_

A knot forms in my stomach, immediately doing away with any appetite I may have had.

"Dad?" I test the waters because sometimes I can't tell if I'm just being paranoid or if he's really ignoring me.

Tension follows my hesitant question and I _know_. I stand up from the table and leave the room; Dad doesn't want me around him when I'm in trouble.

Sitting down on the cold tile of the small bathroom Sam and I share, I fight to keep my emotions buried. I hate the way Dad treats me. I hate that he can just pretend I don't exist when it's convenient for him. But that anger doesn't keep me from doing everything I can to make things right, to make him speak to me again.

When I've disappointed him it feels as though the silence is constricting my lungs, I can't even take a real breath until I know everything is fine again. It's like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. At least, the weight of my Dad's _disappointment_ rests on my shoulders. Funny thing is, most of the time I don't even know what I did. Sometimes I can convince Sam to get it out of him for me.

When I was younger and I would do something wrong, usually it would only take a pathetic drawing of me and Dad with a scribbled 'sorry' at the top for him to stop ignoring me. But that all changed after the Shtriga.

I hear Sam moving around in the bedroom, pretty soon he'll be banging on the door telling me to get out. After all, it's a school day, and he's got to be there by eight. On days like these I skip school, because who cares about a high school diploma when your predestined career is hunting? And it might make Dad less disappointed in me, and pleased enough to end the silence, if I focus on researching the hunt he's going on next week instead, right?

An hour later Dad is handing Sam over some cash for lunch and grabbing the car keys off the counter. He doesn't give me any kind of sign that I'm allowed to get in the car with him, so I know not to follow. I've already made _that_ mistake before.

"Dean?" Sam asks, watching me from the open doorway. I hear Dad blow the Impala's horn.

"I feel like walking today. Fresh air an' all," I shrug, but Sam looks at me doubtfully. Damn kid's too smart for his own good.

Three days pass and Dad's still giving me the cold shoulder.

I've been going over the local papers at the library every morning trying to find the connection between these random drowning's that have been going on in this town for the past few months; nothing so far. But I know once I figure it out Dad will be so proud, he'll forget why he was mad in the first place when he has such a useful son. I glance at my watch as I push another stack of newspapers to the side. It's almost two, which means I have to get home in time for Sammy's bus to drop him off. I nod to the wrinkled librarian behind the front desk, and make my way back home. Tomorrow I'll be back bright and early since it's Saturday, and I'll spend the entire day there if I have to. I have to find something to bring back to Dad.

At 3:40 in the afternoon on Saturday, I finally find what I've been looking for, and a glimmer of hope builds in my chest.

  
_Saline County Gazette_  
 _Lorance Creek, Arkansas  
_ _On the morning of December 20, 1863, the body_  
 _of Miss Ricketts, 16, was found in the_  
 _Lorance Creek. Bruises were found along her neck._  
 _Sheriff Bonner has begun talking to possible suspects._  
 

Copying everything down, I jump out of the hard wooden chair and race home, a smile on my face for the first time in days. This isn't as good as those pitiful drawings I used to make for him, but it's better than nothing. As I walk through the front door I almost run into Sam, but I push him aside in my haste to get to Dad on the threadbare couch that came with the rental. I hold the paper out to him, praying to whatever God is out there that he will just say something, _anything_.

_I'll_ do anything.

"Good job, Dean," and just like that I can breathe again.


	3. June 2001

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something about silence from our parents that is perceived as being as harmful to our survival as something that can physically hurt us, and our body automatically knows this.

_June 2001_

It had been two and a half months since Sam had left them. And it had been two and a half months since John had spoken to Dean.

Nine weeks and five days.

One thousand six hundred and eight hours.

Ninety-six thousand four hundred and eighty minutes.

Five million seven hundred and eighty-eight thousand eight hundred seconds.

Dean marked every wordless day in the hunting journal his father had bought him for his fifteenth birthday with a small "S.T." for silent treatment. The rest of the pages were empty, after all there was nothing else to write. Entries like " _Dad's drunk again. Not even drunk will he say a word_." and " _Another day, flipping through the cheap motel channels._ " didn't seem important enough to waste ink on.

John had gone quiet moments after Sam had slammed that door, and that was the last time Dean heard his father's voice directed towards him. He had tried everything, from alcohol to hunts. But there was nothing he could do, he couldn't fix _this_.

The long days were filled with uncomfortable tension; a constant knot was in Dean's stomach. He was on edge from the moment the sun came up until it traded off with the moon at night. Couldn't John see they were going through the same thing? Couldn't he see how much Dean needed him right now? But that wasn't going to happen; it was foolish even to think such a thing.

At the moment Dean was waiting for his father in the car. They were checking out of yet another town. He was beginning to notice that his father was running away from Sam as much as Sam was running from their father. Oh the irony. Dean would've chuckled, but not now. Not anymore.

Another twenty-four hours passed. John stopped by some rundown diner on the side of the road and they'd eaten, or Dean _tried_ to eat. He wasn't that hungry lately. John glanced over at his half-eaten sandwich, tossed a few bills on the table and walked out. Dean automatically stood up and followed him, ignoring the throbbing in his painfully-full bladder. Because when Dad gets up you get up, that's common knowledge. Unless you want to be left behind as punishment.

Four more hours until they arrived at their next destination. They'd passed three other motels, so why this one? Dean had no clue, he never does. Nor does he care; all he cares about is making it to the bathroom without wetting himself. If Sam had been there he would've spent the rest of the night making fun of Dean.

_Sam._ Sometimes it hurt just to think that name.

After Dean had relieved himself, he relaxed back against his temporary bed, pretending he didn't feel the springs trying to stab him through the thin fabric of the mattress. His father sat at the small wooden table by the door, reading through his own journal. Dean had just begun to doze when an unbelievable sound reached his ears. His hazel eyes shot open and he sat up.

"S-Sir?" He held his breath, worried he might've finally lost his mind and begun to hear voices.

"I said, I'm going out. Don't wait up," was the mumbled response, but it was the most valuable thing he had heard in sixty-nine days, something he had been longing to hear for so long. And then his dad was gone, he could hear the rumble of the Impala being started up.

That hole in his heart that Sam and his father had made suddenly didn't feel so large or quite so deep. Maybe this was just the start and he would no longer have to write those depressing _S.T.'s_ in his journal anymore? The ones that made him feel like a little girl ripping petals off a flower ( _He loves me, he loves me not_ ). Maybe when he woke up in the morning they could go down to that Waffle House they'd passed on their way in? And they could talk, put Sam behind them, start hunting again. Dean itched to clean his guns, but not tonight. That could wait until he could do it with his father. Something he had cherished as a young boy.

Dean forced his heart to stop racing with relief, because everything was going to be all right now. It was finally over. An unabashed grin fell over his face. Dean sank into a peaceful sleep after so many nights of restless tossing and turning.

Seven hours later he awoke to the sun heating up the already too hot room. Waking up was pleasant for once, there was no tightness in his chest, no tension in his belly. Just pure relief and happiness. He looked over at the bed beside his and froze.

The duffel his father had brought in was gone.

Panic shot through him, but he fought down the icy feeling. Surely his father hadn't... _He wouldn't_. Dean tossed the covers off, and ran towards the motel door, hoping something wouldn't be there. Then that would explain everything. But the car was there. So where was his dad?

Dean closed the door, digging his calloused fingers through his unwashed hair. Searching the room for a clue, _something_ , because John wouldn't just leave him.

And then Dean saw it. On the chair where his father had sat last night were the keys to the Impala. Beneath them an envelope. Shaking fingers snatched the envelope off the chair, the keys clattering to the ground.

_33 -39_

Damn _coordinates_. Coordinates! Dean crumpled the paper in his fist before picking up the keys and throwing them across the room. Anger surged through him as he fought back the tears that blurred his vision. He collapsed into the worn chair, face in his hands.

Everyone had left.

Dean was alone.


	4. January 24, 2002

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The silent treatment is a prolonged spell of refusing to communicate as a way of expressing contempt, anger, or disapproval. It can also be used as a tool for psychological/emotional manipulation.

  
_Smoke Rise, Tennessee_  
January 24, 2002

The blaring of a car alarm nearby startled Dean out of his deep sleep. The sudden movement painful for his stiff limbs. Six hours curled up in a car in the middle of winter didn't do him any favors.

Stretching the best he could, and wincing at the various aches from the hunt he had just wrapped up, Dean clutched his leather jacket tighter to himself.

A light rain had started up during the night only to turn into flurries come sunrise. The impala was now covered in a thin layer of snow.

Snow on his birthday. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

Across the rest stop, where he had parked for some shut eye, two small boys- _brothers,_ Dean figured- were gathering up as much snow as they could and trying to build a snowman. Their father sat on the hood of their car going over a map, while the mother sat on the curb watching her children play in the snow.

Dean watched the family for a little while longer until a sense of loneliness came over him. Grabbing his cellphone from his jacket pocket, he clicked it on and waited while the home screen loaded. Minutes crept by but still no box stating a new message or missed call.

Disappointed, Dean stuffed the phone back into his pocket and started up the engine of his car.

He sat there for another ten minutes, his bones soaking up the much needed warmth. And then he backed out of the parking space and hit the highway. That feeling of solitude began to fill him once more, so he put in a Black Sabbath tape and blasted it as loud as his ears could bear.

As long as he wasn't alone with his thoughts.

Three hours and two gas refills later, Smoke Rise was just a distant memory and Dean's stomach had begun to make itself known. It wasn't long after that before he found a Waffle House directly off an exit.

Dean downed the coffee and took great pleasure in consuming his Angus Burger in one bite. Taking a moment to look around the small restaurant, he saw no families or couples, only truckers, probably as lonely as he, out there on the road. But at least they had somewhere to go when they had finished their load. A home to go to, maybe even a family. A bed that was _theirs_.

Tossing a few dollars on the counter, Dean tipped his head to the man behind the counter. He slowly got back into his car, the familiar creaking of the driver door greeting him. _This_ was his home. And the way things were going with his father, ever since the older man had decided he was old enough to hunt alone and then disappeared for months at a time, not to mention Sam's normal life gig that included disowning anyone he knew pre-Stanford, this old girl was quickly becoming his only family, as well.

The grey skies that had followed Dean from Smoke Rise now broke apart under the heat of the sun. _Angels are watching over you_. His mother's words filled him in that moment and he closed his eyes trying desperately to retain that small amount of comfort. But just as quickly as the dark clouds rejoined and hid the sun from sight, so did they hide her from him.

_Yeah, well, they're doing a crappy job._

Dean took out his phone once more, to check if he had missed anything, but there was nothing new.

Apparently his brother and father had better things to do with their day than call him. All he wanted to hear were two small words.

Shaking his head in frustration, Dean ran the back of his hand across his brow. Why was he thinking things like that? He wasn't some oversensitive girl who was so easily broken hearted. Was he going to start crying next?

He snorted and put the car in reverse.

No, his father was probably in the middle of nowhere, shivering under his coat, rifle in hand, setting a trap for some poor damn creature that had dared to cross him. And Sam, Sam more than likely had his nose an inch from the pages in his textbook, studying his brains out for an upcoming test.

Twenty-three wasn't even a milestone, and January 24th was just another day in the busy life of being a Winchester.

Dean drove for the next nine hours, crossing two states, and spending the last of his cash on gas. He would have to stop by a bar sometime the next day and win some more money. But for now, he was parked at another rest stop, his jacket snug around him, and his head resting against the window. He took his cellphone out one more time. Just to make sure.

All that had changed was a flashing battery symbol. He let out a deep sigh and stuck it back in his pocket.

Within minutes he was dead to the world.


	5. June 18, 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most people who are given the silent treatment don't have a support network of friends and family to turn to to deal with the pain.

  
_Augusta, Georgia_  
June 18, 1996

Dean had no idea why their father had left them in this _shack_ in the middle of a bad neighborhood, just outside of the city, without a car. He had no idea why the man had become so secretive these last few months, or why not even Pastor Murphy was telling him anything. He also was at a complete loss as to why their father had left in such a hurry.

All Dean did know was that Sam had been in a grouchy state since their father dropped them off and now the testosterone filled, six foot thirteen year old was in his face _trying_ to be intimidating. And if Dean hadn't been so stressed and anxious over what was going on in his father's life, he would have found this current situation hilarious.

But he didn't.

And when Sam dared to shove him against the wall that was covered in peeling wallpaper and his head nearly slammed backwards into the hard surface, Dean could no longer hold back his rising fury. He watched Sam pull himself up to his full height and grind his teeth. They both were so wound up, so full of unhealthy energy. They were both so angry and frustrated, with their father, with their situation. There were no outlets, no answers, and no help. For either of them.

That energy had to go somewhere.

Dean threw the first punch. At the very last centimeter he realized what he was doing and he tried to pull back, but it was too late. His knuckles smashed into his brother's left cheek, pain blossoming through both of them. Then they were both at it, fists flying, legs swinging. The thick feeling of rage that filled the room caused their adrenaline to race that much more. All they could do was keep lashing out, keep hurting each other; because they were both so tired of the hand they had been dealt.

But the sleepless nights that Dean had spent with a gun in his lap staring out the front window, watching for his dad, were getting to him, and this intense fight was quickly draining the last of his reserved energy. At first he tripped over his own feet, giving Sam the perfect opening to throw him to the ground, but he recovered quickly. It was only after too many hits to the head, when his vision darkened for a split second that he felt his entire body simply give up.

And before he knew it Sam had him flat out on the ground and was roughly holding him down. Both brother's gasped for breath, faces flushed, sweat mixing with blood.

Dean tried to get up from the floor, but his brother only held him down harder. "You're not… _leaving_ …" Dean ground out, voice shaking.

Yes, that's what had started all of this. Sam wanted to go out and _do something_. The teenager felt that he had some right to come and go as he pleased now, and Dean was getting sick of it fast.

"You're not DAD!" Sam roared, his hands tightening their hold around Dean's arms. "When are you going to get that? You're not him, and you could never be him, even if you wanted to! So stop pretending you can _control me_!"

A tense silence immediately surrounded them.

Dean stared up into the bruising face of his younger brother, unable to say a word. _You're not Dad_ echoed through his head and he couldn't let that go. When did he ever say he wanted to be like his father? Their father was cold, manipulative, broken, and alone. Dean didn't want to be like the man, but he did want Dad to be proud of him.

No, if anyone was John Winchester, it was Sam. Every single day Dean saw something of John in the teenager, and he tried so hard to protect his brother. Protect that innocence, so that the young boy would _never_ end up like their father.

Hazel green eyes hardened as they gazed up at wild brown ones.

Sam released his tight hold, and got up off the ground, shaking his head. He wiped away the sweat from his forehead, and dabbed at the blood around his nose. "I'm just…" Sam crossed his arms. "I'm not some kid you have to watch over anymore. I want you to leave me alone." And then Sam was gone, leaving the front door wide open.

Dean covered his face with still-shaking hands and tried to gain control back over his aching body.

He couldn't please either of them. His only family in the entire world. The two people whom he would give his life up for in a heartbeat, and yet, he couldn't please either of them. Dad says to watch over Sam; Sam says to stop 'being Dad.'

"No use…" he rolled over onto his hands and knees, slowly getting up off the disgusting carpet. "No use at all." Dean closed the door his brother had left open, and then limped over to the couch, collapsing on it.

Shortly after ten that night, Dean was woken by the front door opening. Sam stomped in, not even glancing over at Dean, before going to their shared bedroom and slamming the door shut behind him. Dean knew Sam wasn't going to be speaking to him for quite some time, seeing how he was _still_ angry. Sitting up from his comfortable spot, Dean was just about to grab the salt and reline the door, when it opened once more. He felt his heart skip a beat and he scrambled for the shotgun on the floor beside him.

Loaded and ready to blast the head off of any creature that had followed Sammy, Dean tried to keep his hands steady.

But then John Winchester was storming through the doorway, a mixture of disappointment and wrath on his face. Dean instantly dropped the gun and gulped, backing away from his father. The elder Winchester clearly hadn't had a shower in the four days since he had left, nor had he shaved. In fact, Dean didn't think he had even changed clothes.

"Found Sammy walking along Wrightsboro. _Alone_." John loomed over his oldest intimidatingly, "Mind telling me why that was?" He asked quietly. And God knew that Dad meant business when his voice became _that_ quiet.

"Dad, I tried to-"

"Tried? Not nearly enough, apparently."

Dean avoided his father's gaze, instead staring determinedly at those worn brown boots that his father refused to give up.

"Get out of my sight."

And Dean did just that, without hesitation. That night he slept curled up in the mold-filled bathtub, his jacket tucked around him.

The next morning, the Winchester's all woke up and packed up their few items and put them in the trunk of the Impala. Dean was following Dad out the front door, duffle in hand, when he felt Sam shove past him. Just outside, he watched his brother and father get into the front seat of the car.

Great, both of them were angry with him and both weren't speaking to him. This was going to be an incredibly long ride.

Dean sighed as he climbed into the backseat hoping the car that was his only home would lull him right to sleep so he wouldn't have to feel the disgust coming off his family. So that he could pretend just for a little while that they weren't ignoring the fact that he was alive.

God he hated Augusta.


	6. 1984

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The silent treatment is used by those individuals who feel a lack of control over their situation, which creates a need to control those around them, because they are truly afraid of losing those whom they love.

_1984_

It's a lot easier to tell everyone that his boy refuses to speak after the trauma of losing his mom, than to explain why a widower refuses to so much as look at his oldest son, much less talk to him.

Dean _is_ Mary. The way he speaks. The loving look in those green eyes; always so eager to forgive and forget. Even the way he sleeps, flat on his back with the covers pulled to his chin. All Mary. And it breaks John's heart, what little is left intact, every time he looks at that boy. John thinks Dean has figured this out, and that's why the five year old goes so easily along with the 'grieving over mommy' story.

 _Mary_.

John shakily pours another glass of Jack Daniels and tosses it back. The few times he's been able to look his oldest son in the eye since _that day_ , all he can see is Mary staring back at him accusingly. But she just doesn't understand that he's doing the best he can, that if he didn't fall back on that marine discipline he would already have lost their boys to child services. She doesn't understand that he wasn't cut out for this _dad_ stuff. It was only because he knew she'd be by his side every day that he even came back after walking out on them.

And doesn't that just fill him with an entirely deeper level of guilt? He couldn't handle the stresses at home, and after so many late night arguments with Mary, instead of being a man he fled to the nearest motel. Where he stayed for five weeks, five very long weeks filled with lonely nights eating soup out of cans. Whenever he would call to talk to Dean, Mary would answer the phone and they would immediately start arguing about the pettiest things. It was only in the last week of October that they were finally able to settle everything, and she convinced him that he should come back home, that 'his boys' missed him. If he had stayed gone one more week, just seven more days, he'd be buying two more caskets.

John wipes a hand across his eyes, removing any signs of tears. He gruffly coughs and drinks one more glass of whiskey for the night before heading to bed. He peeks inside the boy's room and unsurprisingly finds Dean curled around Sammy in the one year olds new crib. John's not sure when this habit of sneaking out of bed and sleeping with his younger brother started, but some nights John's tempted to snap at Dean to get back to bed. But that always sweet voice of Mary in the back of his head tells him to instead pick Dean up and hold him, comfort him the way he should be comforted, the way he obviously is searching for in the form of his baby brother.

Instead John closes the bedroom door and collapses on his own bed.

He doesn't know what to do anymore. He doesn't even know who he is anymore. But he knows he can't just abandon Sam and Dean, he's got to cowboy up. Get rid of those tears, put aside this depression, and start doing something. Grabbing the journal off his bedside table, John flicks through the dozens of pages he's written in. The first few are covered with every memory he has of _that night_. Anything he heard or saw, any strange occurrences, phone calls- absolutely everything that can help unravel this mystery surrounding his wife's murder.

Yes, murder. Because no matter what the firemen said, what the police detective's told him repeatedly, he knows what _he_ saw, and there's no way to logically explain it as 'faulty wiring' and 'electrical problems.' This was something bad, and unfortunately something he never believed in. Mary was the religious type, not him. He would always roll his eyes at her 'angels are watching over you' speech. But ironically, that's the first place he starts in his search to find her killer. Angels and demons. Over the first few months after her death he gathered together every bit of information he could find on the subject, but instead of finding answers only discovered more questions. Which led him to where he is today, researching all the things that go bump in the night, the scary creatures that were in all his favorite movies when he was a kid.

Recently he met up with a group of people who called themselves hunters, which he laughed at the first time he heard, because it was such a mundane title. That was until he was told exactly what a hunter truly was. He was sold instantly.

That was three months ago. They hadn't let him actually go on a 'hunt' yet, they weren't sure he was ready, so John has been stuck researching for them. Every creature he's come across so far in his research he's written little notes on in his journal in hope that it will help him find Mary's killer. And then maybe he can finally get a good night's sleep.

Mary's left him with this huge task of raising their sons, and he's not going to give up. These _things_ he's researched are terrifying, and they leave him paranoid about his family's safety. Soon he'll have to start training Dean in how to handle firearms and how to fight, because the day is coming quickly when he will be off on a hunt, and he needs to know that he can count on Dean to watch over Sam.

But not yet. He will when Mary stops haunting him through their oldest son.

Tossing the journal back on the table, John switches the table lamp off and rolls over under his covers. He'll sleep for maybe two hours or so, only to be awoken by another nightmare of Mary screaming for him, bleeding from the ceiling. He always jerks awake just as the flames cover her.

John tries to focus on tomorrow. Dean goes to another day of kindergarten while he spends hours in a too-hot garage working on cars that could never match the beauty of his Impala. And baby Sammy will be left in the caring hands of an old obnoxious friend of Mary's who knew John wasn't fit to be a parent from the first day they met.

His last thought before sleep takes him is of Dean, and how he loves him so much, he just can't show it. Not right now.

The next morning when he runs into Dean carrying Sammy to the kitchen for breakfast, he averts his eyes.

Hopefully someday he'll be able to look at his own child.


	7. February 9, 2009

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the one time Sam refused to let it happen. (Tag to Sex and Violence)

  
_Bedford, Iowa  
_ February 9, 2009

They were still in Iowa nearly a week after the 'siren incident.' Both brothers were tense and unsure around each other, what little trust had been between them before Thursday was now shattered into a million pieces. Dean tried his hand at small talk, sharing possible cases with Sam every now and then. Sam would mumble responses, avoiding eye contact with his brother out of embarrassment. They had both said so much that night, revealed too much too fast, and now that it was out in the open neither knew what to do with it all.

So they played a common Winchester tactic called _avoidance_.

Only, it had already been four days, and they weren't getting anywhere fast.

Dean was still suffering through his nightly nightmares, self-medicating with a bottle of Jack, as Sam silently observed from the four-foot distance between his bed and his brother's. And Sam was still sneaking out to visit Ruby when he thought Dean's focus was elsewhere. Little did he know Dean's eyes were always on his younger brother, especially when Sam least expected it- "Watch out for Sammy" _always_. They both feigned ignorance and tried to give each other space to lick their wounds inflicted by poisoned words. But the poison was spreading faster than either would have ever expected, and too soon they were back where they started _that night_ , just as angry and bitter.

Sam was inches from Dean, his face red and his eyes filled with fire.

Dean was in Sam's face too, only his words were defensive and his eyes shone with betrayal.

They didn't end in a fist fight _this_ time, but Sam's words were more powerful than any physical blow he could ever throw, knocking Dean's confidence right out from underneath him. The argument lasted minutes, but the deafening silence that followed felt like hours. Sam kept his back to Dean, breaths coming in hard as he struggled to regain control over his anger.

Dean leaned back against the grimy motel wall, his head down, hands shaking.

" _Too busy feeling sorry for yourself, whining about all the souls you tortured."_

Sinking heavily on to the edge of his bed, Dean wondered when they'd stopped being brothers.

" _I'm smarter, stronger than you. I can take out demons you're too scared to go near."_

It had to have been when Sam buried him in that pine box and was forced to move on. Something Dean could never have done, because he was _weak_ and _needy_. He'd heard that often in enough in hell, Alastair loved picking him apart piece by piece. Alastair had told him then that he was making Dean stronger by breaking him down. Dean didn't believe him anymore because he was weaker than ever.

A loud sigh had Dean looking up from his shoelaces. Sam's back was still to him, but his brother's voice was loud and clear, "Don't wait up." And he was out the door before Dean could take another breath.

Those words broke something deep inside Dean, that smallest place in the farthest corner of his heart that was reserved strictly for family, for _Sammy_ , and was guarded by layers of barbed wire. The raw pain ravaged through that corner of his heart and ripped to shreds every precious memory of his family he held with a firm grasp. They were slipping through his fingers now, like the string of a balloon carried away by the wind. His vision swam, and he blinked furiously only to feel tears sliding down his face. He hadn't even realized he was crying.

He cried _a lot_ since getting out of hell.

" _Don't wait up_." Dean had heard those exact words only one other time in his three decades of life, the night John had left him. When he had been tossed aside like a useless dog, left behind to fend for himself in a world that no longer revolved around Sam and John. Neither of them had cared that they were taking with them Dean's purpose in life and taunting him with it.

Dean was a protector by nature but when you took that away from him he became a hopeless wanderer, looking for flings, easy hustles, and fast kills. And every other thought was either about Sam or John, always, because that's who he was. He was John Winchester's son and Sammy's brother. Without being those things he was nothing, a nobody.

Hours passed quietly, the moon dipped behind the skyline of trees and the sky bloomed with fresh light. Dean lay still atop the covers of a perfectly made bed, tears long since wiped away but the pain that had caused them very much present. Sometime during the night he had packed his duffel, and all that remained out of place in the small room was the nearly empty bottle of whisky by his side. Finally, Dean sat up and ran the back of his hand across weary eyes.

It was time to get up and move on.

When John had left Dean had spent weeks in the room where he had been abandoned, refusing to accept that his father had truly left him. And with coordinates, no less. Dean didn't like feeling worthless and used, especially by those he loved and gave his all to. So he sat in that motel room day after day, Impala's keys digging into the palm of his hand cellphone in the other, _not_ moving on. And when he finally gave in to that voice in the back of his head whispering to him all hours of the day that he was alone and unwanted, it took months to build back up the face of Dean Winchester strangers were used to seeing; that cocky, charming, flirty 'Dean' that usually got into bar fights as well as out of them. It had taken so long to perfect those walls around his slowly mending heart back then. Now he wasn't sure where to even start rebuilding what Sam had crumbled. The faster he moved on the faster those walls could be rebuilt.

Dean looked around the room once more, memorizing every inch of it, so that he could remember where they ended- _Sam & Dean_. Then he shuffled out the door, duffle slung over his shoulder and the nearly empty bottle of whisky in hand.

"Where're you going?" The voice startled him, and Dean spun around to find a very tired looking Sam slouched in a plastic lawn chair that had seen better days.

"Don't know."

"If you don't know, then why are you leaving?" Sam sat forward in the chair, resting his chin on his hand.

Dean kept silent but his thoughts were clearly read on his face.

 _Because you're leaving_.

"Dean, I'm not leaving." The _you_ was left unspoken but still heard. "You're my brother and you've done a hell of a lot for me. More than I've deserved." Sam stood from the chair, moving towards Dean. "And I," his throat caught, and he swallowed back the emotions that struggled to the surface, "I'm sorry for what I said to you. You're the strongest person I know, Dean. You survived forty _years_ in hell. I had no right to say what I did, and I uh… hope you can forgive me."

There was tentative fear in those brown eyes that reached deep into Dean's soul, coaxing out his instinctive nature to protect. And if there was one thing Dean could never do, it was to deny his brother anything. And though his chest still tightened when he thought of the words his brother had said to him, a sincere apology went a long way in repairing fallen walls and frayed hearts.

Dean tossed his duffle at his brother, who caught it easily. "On one condition, no more chick flick moments." Nodding, that Sammy-smile suddenly appeared, dimples showing and the huff of a laugh.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."


End file.
